


By Hand

by Celia_and



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Social Anxiety, Soft Ben Solo, Waitress Rey (Star Wars), Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celia_and/pseuds/Celia_and
Summary: Ben’s heart feels a little lighter the rest of the day. Maybe it had been filling up with too many words.He leaves them in paper boats, under napkins smeared with syrup or ketchup. They’ll never sail. He’ll never tell her. He’ll just watch from afar as she smiles.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 80
Kudos: 476





	By Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [someonesbeenhere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonesbeenhere/gifts).



> A small, sweet one-shot based on this delightful [prompt](https://twitter.com/someonesbh/status/1279133213957464065) from [@someonesbh](https://twitter.com/someonesbh) on Twitter:
> 
> “Socially anxious Ben visits the same cafe every morning, and he’s fallen for sweet waitress, Rey. Every day he writes down a lovely thought about her, folds into a boat, and leaves it behind to be swept into the trash.
> 
> He doesn’t know that Rey has kept every single one.”

She and her sunny smile arrived in the café and his life four months ago. Before her, he would get the same thing every day, but now he changes it up so he has an excuse to talk to her.

“What would you like, Ben?”

“Eggs,” he says, or “cereal.” Never the real answer.

_You._

His notepad helps him be in the world. His brain tells his hand the words he’d like to say. They’re usually simple—so simple that most people’s brains can give them straight to their mouths without the intermediary. It’s a hassle, that extra step, but he doesn’t mind.

He _didn’t_ mind, that is, until her. Because he can write the words that he needs to get through the world, but it’s not just about _needs_ anymore. Now he wants.

His wildest fantasy is a date. A whole dinner, full of unwritten words. Unthinkable.

It doesn’t bother him too much, though. He accepted a long time ago that he isn’t like other people. They can date and get married and talk without practicing. He doesn’t need those things, he has to remind himself. He doesn’t even want them.

(Right?)

His hand is full of her now: little things that he’d like to say to her.

_You should be in the dictionary next to “graceful.”_

_I didn’t know how beautiful a syllable could be until I heard your name._

_Are you really always as happy as you seem? I hope so._

_You enchant me._

He doesn’t leave them in the notebook. The notebook is for practical things. She’s not practical, because dreams are never practical, especially impossible ones. So he painstakingly tears out the pages that are decked with her. His fingers smooth their words.

Once she comes to refill his coffee just as he’s finished ripping out one of her pages, and he hurriedly folds it so she can’t see. She smiles as she pours. She doesn’t talk, because then he would have to talk back, and he thinks she understands that he needs to practice first. She moves on to another table, but his hands keep folding. When they’re done he’s left with a paper boat, the kind his father taught him to make one summer Saturday at the river. Ben didn’t know he even remembered how. His thumb traces a seam thoughtfully.

When he gathers his things to leave he considers taking it, but leaves it under his crumpled napkin instead. The busboy can throw it away. She won’t know she never got her words. His father won’t know the memory will become trash. He wouldn’t care, anyway.

Ben’s heart feels a little lighter the rest of the day. Maybe it had been filling up with too many words.

He leaves them in boats, under napkins smeared with syrup or ketchup. They’ll never sail. He’ll never tell her. He’ll just watch from afar as she smiles.

* * *

The first time, the corner of cream-colored paper catches her eye because she thinks it’s a tip. But why would Ben leave a cash tip when he already tips 40% by credit card? She’d like to tell him he doesn’t need to give her so much. He’s her easiest customer, by far. He gives her his shy smiles and his consideration for how hard her job is. He already gives her a reason to look forward to the morning. She doesn’t need anything more from him. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t want it, though.

Whenever she has ten seconds to lean on the counter and take a break, her eyes find him and his journal. She wonders if he’s a writer. Or maybe he’s writing love notes to his girlfriend. She hopes not.

When she pulls that first paper boat from under the napkin, she tucks it in her apron with a smile. It’s not for her, she knows, but she wants it. She feels like a little girl again, but this time she’s allowed to have things. She’s allowed to want things.

When she gets home she perches it on her dresser, where she can see it from her bed. That night she falls asleep smiling.

He leaves her more. (Not _her,_ of course, but she can pretend.) She brings them all home. She adds to the paper armada on her dresser until it fills up. She finds an old shelf left out for the trash truck, takes it home and puts it on her wall. The boats fill it up too. She saves up enough to buy another shelf. Her life has him in the morning and his boats at night.

One rainy morning he forgets his umbrella at his table. She picks up the umbrella with one hand and the boat with the other, automatically—not thinking that he’ll come back and see her holding it.

She turns around. He did. And he does.

His face turns white, then red.

“I—” he stammers. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Why?”

“I didn’t mean for you to see.”

“I’ve been saving them,” she smiles. “They’re too nice to be thrown away.”

“You...you think they’re nice?” He wrings one hand with the other.

“Of course I do! They’re lovely.”

His eyes widen. His face lights up. “Really?”

“I’ve saved them all, for months. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? No!”

“I couldn’t help myself.”

“I’m glad you like them. So glad.”

“I know they’re not for me, but they make me smile.”

“What?”

He goes ashen again. “Rey...of course they’re for you. Who else would they be for?”

“You left them all for me?”

“I meant for them to be thrown away. I didn’t expect you to find them.”

“But...I thought you said you made them for me?”

“I _wrote_ them for you.”

“What?”

“Oh.” His shoulders slump. “You didn’t read them.”

 _“Read_ them? What do you mean?”

“I write down things I can’t say. I wrote those things about you and folded them up.”

She thinks of the paper flotilla that watches her sleep: each with a hidden message in its hold. For her. “I didn’t know there was writing inside. Why didn’t you just tell me what you wanted to say?”

“I’m not good at talking. I can’t talk to you.”

A smile steals across her face. “Ben. You _are_ talking to me. We’re having a whole conversation.”

He hadn’t realized it until she pointed it out—she can tell by the way his eyebrows shoot up and his lips part for a quick intake of air. When he smiles, it’s a whole grin. “We are.”

She can’t help grinning too. “We are.”

They stand there in a bubble of their own, oblivious to the busy café and the storm outside. She needs to ask the question, but she needs to smile at him first, and watch him smile at her.

Finally, she asks: “Is it okay if I read them?”

He takes a deep breath. “If you want to.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

He looks bereft. “You don’t?”

She looks up at him earnestly. “I want you to read them to me.”

He hesitates. She lets him think.

After an eternity, he smiles. “Okay.”

So does she. “Okay. They’re at my apartment. Do you want to come to my apartment?”

“Okay.”

“Tonight?”

“Okay.”

“Eight o’clock?”

“Okay.”

She steps forward and hands him his umbrella. He looks like he’d forgotten such a thing existed.

“Ben?”

“Yeah?”

She takes a pen from her apron to scribble her address on the boat. “Do you want to read this one to me, now?” She hands it to him.

He unfolds it slowly and clears his throat. He looks down at the paper and up at her.

He speaks so softly that she has to step even closer to hear him. “I wish I had the words to tell you what you mean to me.”

She caresses his hand as she takes the paper back. She writes something down and hands it back to him.

As he looks down to read, she quickly rises up on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek.

_You’ve been giving them to me all along._

**Author's Note:**

> I so hope you enjoyed! 😊 I’m doing much of my writing on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/celiaand2) nowadays; please feel free to come visit! 💛


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